Alek.

"Já, já" is what Alek says when he's nodding along, even if he doesn't agree: two syllables that close a subject without committing to anything, buy time, and soften without giving ground. It's the closest thing to filler a puffin of so few words allows himself. He repairs engines and boat hulls in his city's old harbor, and that's where he's at his best, with things running. He doesn't talk about the coffee either; it's just there, like the silence, before the first engine of the morning starts up.

What Alek treasures most, he doesn't show: a bag with six rope knots his father tied him last Christmas, without a word, that he hasn't undone or given back. It's his way of loving people, the same way he looks after those close to him — even a faraway friend, Otto, a fox from northern Norway he only answers one voice message in three from, and still never lets down. The mug is for that quiet morning moment, with his front-on face right there. If you'd rather have that portrait on the wall, the same one's available as a print.